


Funeral of a King

by Prophetandprincess



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Gen, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-19
Updated: 2015-10-19
Packaged: 2018-04-27 01:50:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5029069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prophetandprincess/pseuds/Prophetandprincess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cassandra Amell gives a eulogy at Alistair's funeral</p>
            </blockquote>





	Funeral of a King

As Cassandra Amell mounted the steps of the wooden stage and walked to where the body was laid out, a hush fell over the crowd. They were hot and tired, having listened to Queen Anora and Arl Eamon speak about the man that was laid out in front of them. The bastard Prince, who took the throne only to lose his life days later. A bastard Prince that no one knew about until the Landsmeet.  
  
The death of a King would have drawn a large crowd regardless, but many were there just to see Cassandra, the Hero of Ferelden. She was the one credited with mustering the forces to stop the Blight, though Alistair took the final blow. Tales of her deeds had traveled all over Thedas, most of them exaggerated to the point where she was no longer a person, but a demigod sent by the Maker to save them all.  
  
Looking at her as she positioned herself in the middle of the stage, she could easily be some celestial being that helped souls reach the Maker. She was in all black, her dress was simple and sleek, covering her from throat to feet. The only jewelry she wore was a necklace that ended in a golden ring and a single silver ring on her finger. Braids formed a crown on her head, black ribbons twisted in with her pure white hair. The rest of her hair was unbound and fell like a cloak to her waist. Her mouth was painted blood red, a stark contrast to her white skin. Her light grey eyes, outlined in black, surveyed the crowd before her. They seemed to pierce into every soul that dared to meet her gaze. Later, people would say that she read their minds, being a mage, and judged if they were worthy.  
  
Then her eyes drifted down to the body laid out before her. It was clad in the golden armor of King Cailan and on his chest rested King Maric’s sword. The sun was caught by the golden armor and made it look as if the body was glowing. As tales of the funeral traveled, the story changed that the body actually was glowing with golden light, the Maker was showing his favor for the man who saved them from an Old God. At the time, however, most people wondered how they were keeping the body from smelling in the intense heat.  
  
Cassandra still did not speak when her eyes came back up to the crowd. She waited until the shuffling and murmuring had stopped, until the entire crowd was completely silent, waiting for the first words to tumble from her lips. What would her voice sound like? Would she cry? Was she a blood mage that would curse them all? What was this woman, who did not look like a Hero so much as a witch they would warn their children away from, going to say?  
  
She closed her eyes for a moment, her blood red lips parted slightly, and she took a deep breath.  
  
“Today, we are here to honor Alistair Theirin, the last of King Calenhad bloodline.” Cassandra’s voice did not waver and it was not raised, but it was commanding. You couldn’t help but listen to her. Her voice was like wind chimes, light and ringing without being loud. The whole crowd was captivated, waiting for her next word, her next breath. Without using a bit of magic she had them all entranced.  
  
“As expected of a man who shared the same blood as King Calenhad and King Marric, he was a hero without measure. His sword was quick and his shield arm was strong. He was loyal, braved, and courageous. A warrior beyond measure. You could not have asked for a better King, a better man, or a better friend.”  
  
The crowd expected her voice to break or a tear to roll down her perfect white cheek. Anora showed emotion and Arl Eamon’s voice also became gruff. However, neither of those things happened. Cassandra just took a breath, blinked, and continued forward as if she was giving a lecture to a bunch of children. Her face showing no emotion, like she was an animated porcelain doll.  
  
“You have all heard the stories of what Alistair did during the Blight. He help secure Kinloch Hold, he saved Redcliffe twice, he gained the aid of Orzammar, and he led our forces against the darkspawn after claiming his throne. The list of his accomplishments is long and I will not tell you them all, but know that Ferelden would not be the country it is now without him. It would not be a country at all.”  
  
A drunken cheer came from somewhere in the crowd and everyone joined in. Soon, the whole square was clapping and cheering. Cassandra stood there and waited, not showing whether this outburst surprised her or what she expected. She let the people cheer for a few moments, once again looking at them like a mother humoring her children.  
  
The moment she held up her hand, the crowd fell silent instantly. Queen Anora, who was sitting behind her on the stage, pursed her lips. The Queen did not like that the people seemed to respect and fear Cassandra the same amount, or more, than they did her. Cassandra, if she chose to, could be a huge political figure in Thedas. Cassandra wanted nothing to do with politics, finding all the sitting around and talking instead of action annoying. However, Anora knew that she was going to have to keep her eye on Cassandra. No one thought that the people would love a mage as much as they loved the Hero of Ferelden.  
  
“However, that is not want I want to speak about today. Queen Anora and Arl Eamon have already sung the praises of Alistair as a warrior and a leader. Those are the stories that you have heard, that you expected. I make it a point to not be what is expected.” It was not a joke, but a statement. Looking at Cassandra, it was obvious that she was not a woman that you laughed at lightly. Most of the crowd was still convinced she could turn them into mice, so there was no chuckling or even an ill-times cough after that statement.  
  
“What I want to talk about is the type of man Alistair was, the man that I grew to respect and admire during my time with him. He was kind and compassionate, at his core a gentleman and a good person. Being raised by the Chantry had instilled in him a sense that it was his job to make the world a better place than it was when he entered it. Alistair embodied all of the good aspects of the Chantry while not being self-righteous. He was awkward at times, self-conscious, and too sarcastic that it bordered on being insufferable.”  
  
There was a low humming in the crowd and the officials on the stage shifted uncomfortably. All of them had sung Alistair’s praises when talking to the commoners, but many of them had talked poorly of him until the moment they walked onto stage to other nobles. Some nobility said it was better for Ferelden that he had died instead of being able to rule the country. Others doubted that he was even Marric’s son, even with Arl Eamon and Bann Teagan supporting his claim. Yet, none of them had one bad word to say when they spoke about the dead man in front of the assembled crowd.  
  
“Alistair was not perfect by any stretch of the imagination, which the other speakers did not have time to add when they spoke. They also did not have the time to know him the way I did, which is why they waited for me to speak about him as a man and not the person the tales will remember.”  
  
“Alistair, at times, was obnoxious and so idealistic that it was annoying. He was one of the messiest people I have ever met and his personal hygiene was lacking. Many times he faked naïveté so that he wouldn’t have to deal with issues he found unpleasant, leaving them to me. The list of his annoying qualities is almost as long as his admirable ones.”  
  
People start to look at each other at this point, not sure if they should laugh or be outraged. This man was a hero, and here this woman, who supposedly was his friend, was listing all his negative qualities while he could not defend himself. Not only that, but there was no joking air to her voice. She spoke the same way as she had about his admirable qualities, as if she was reciting from a list. Queen Anora and Arl Eamon shared a look, both wondering if they should stop Cassandra before she said something that would smear Alistair reputation. They had not wanted her to speak at all, but the people wanted to see Cassandra and so they had given her to them.  
  
“The reason I tell you these things is not because I mean to talk ill of the dead. If there is one person who deserves to have some rest in death that he did not have in life, it is Alistair. No, the reason I am telling you this is because he wasn’t the glowing hero that the bards would have you believe him to be. He was a mortal, just like the rest of us. He wasn’t perfect in life and he shouldn’t be perfect in death, either.” Cassandra voice held an edge that wasn’t in it before. The tone and volume hadn’t changed, but the pronunciation was slightly sharper.  
  
Cassandra was more aware of the thin line between life and death than anyone else in the crowd. His death was supposed to be hers, she was supposed to die taking the final blow. He should be speaking at her funeral. He stepped in at the last minute, saying that it was his duty as a Warden and King to end the Blight. Cassandra tried not to think about him saying that he knew how he felt about her and wouldn’t let her die if he could prevent it. She didn’t think about his saying he wasn’t giving her a choice, his hand seeking hers for a moment, before he charged at the dragon.  
  
“However, it is his imperfections that made him extraordinary. His naïveté was needed in a world being overrun with evil. His idealism was needed when I was sure that there was no good left in the world that everyone was only out for themselves. His mess needed because it was something that could easily be managed, and in the end, I think he did it just to annoy the rest of us. His sarcasm was needed when I was becoming too full of myself. We needed him to keep us together, to keep us moving, to keep us sane.”  
The night after his death, none of them slept. Cassandra kept a vigil over Alistair’s body, Zevran beside her, saying nothing, just being there. He felt guilty that he was so relieved that Cassandra came back alive and Alistair didn’t. Leliana sang a few songs of lament, but Cassandra hardly heard them. Sten stood guard at the door, making sure that no one bothered Cassandra. Oghren drank in his honor while Ember whined at Cassandra’s feet. Shale commented on how she was upset that he was as squishy as he looked. Zevran tutted in disapproval, but Cassandra understood what the golem meant. Cassandra said nothing, she just sat there with him, looking at him, trying to figure what to do now that everything was over.  
  
“It is these imperfections that you will never hear about if I did not tell you about them now. Alistair was a normal twenty-one year old man who had been thrown into extraordinary situations all his life. From the beginning he was forced to live an extraordinary life, a bastard prince that could never tell anyone his true lineage. He was then given to the Chantry, to become a Templar and serve the Maker. Then he was recruited by Duncan to join the Grey Wardens, an order devoted to keeping Thedas safe from the Blight. And finally, he became King in the most unforeseen way possible. Who in this audience, who on this stage, who in this world, could say that they would have handled it and still hold on to hope, good humor, and belief in others the way Alistair did.”  
  
Cassandra paused, again her eyes almost piercing into every one of the hearts in the crowd. Sweat was rolling down their faces, the smell of bodies in the crowd was almost unbearable. However, Cassandra was standing, shrouded in all black, completely comfortable in the blazing sunlight. Again, they began to wonder if she was mortal, or if something had happened to her when the Archdemon had been killed. Others had heard about her nickname the Ice Queen from her time in the Circle, how exactly no one was exactly sure, and they saw the full force of that persona that day.  
  
“While Alistair held onto optimism and humor, there were things that he wanted that he was never able to have. What he wanted, more than anything, was a family.”  
  
Arl Eamon shifted uncomfortably at this, casting a quick glance to his wife who was sitting off to the side of the stage. Many did not know that Alistair lived with Arl Eamon for a time, or that his wife sent him away. Cassandra had made no secret that she didn’t like Lady Isolde, but she didn’t turn the accusatory glance on her. She didn’t have to.  
  
“He found that family with the Grey Wardens, men and women that took him in and didn’t care about who his father was or his station in life. They cared that he was quick with a sword, good with a shield, and loyal to a fault. A family that I did not get to meet, but was accepted into that family through Alistair and Duncan. He had not found this acceptance in the Chantry, no matter how much they preach about acceptance and love. Unlike Andraste, the members of the Chantry don’t always practice what they preach.”  
  
An accusatory glance did go to the sisters that were in the crowd, Cassandra’s grey eyes focusing in on them like a hawk. Some of them glowered at her, others gasped, and the crowd turned their eyes on the sisters as well. The Chantry was already worried about a mage rising to such ranks in popular approval, but what could they say when she had saved their lives. What could they say when the crowd was currently so enamored with Cassandra.  
  
“They accepted Alistair as one of their own, nurtured him and made him a better person. Their loss, the loss of Duncan most of all, took a toll on him that he never recovered from. It is a toll that Ferelden will never recover from, it will take time before the Wardens in Ferelden will reach the caliber of what was lost in Ostagar, if they ever reach that caliber again. That is even more obvious now with Alistair gone.”  
  
“But what will be missed most is his laugh and how his cheeks turned red when he was embarrassed, which happened often. Both of us were experiencing the world together for the first time. I had never been outside the Tower and he had been locked up in the Chantry. There will be no songs or tales about both of us, blisters on our feet, complaining about how far we had to walk. There will be no songs about the time that he slipped on the river bank and tumbled into the water in full armor and it took two people to help him out. There will be no tales about how awful his cooking was. Instead, he will be remembered as a man in golden armor who thrust his sword into the skull of the Archdemon when all seemed lost. Even now, when he hasn’t been dead more than a week, he has become a poor drawing of the man he was.”  
  
There would also be no tales about the last moments of Alistair’s life, which she was one of the few people privy to see, and what came after. How she had cradled his dead body against her own, praying, for the first time in her life, that he would start breathing again. How she gently closed his eyes with her fingertips. How she refused to leave him up there among the bodies of darkspawn. She did not shed a tear or weep, she just sat there and held him and waited.  
  
Finally, Sten came and picked up Alistair’s body. He carried it with great reverence into an empty room in the Palace. Leliana left to go and find Bann Teagan, to tell him what had happened, but Cassandra would not leave that room. It was the least she could do for him, to make sure he wasn’t alone. She should have done so much more.  
  
“I want you to remember that Alistair was not just a King, or a Warden, or the last of Calenhad’s bloodline, he was a twenty-one year old man who wanted to make the world a better place. Not by slaying an Archdemon or becoming King, but by helping people. I might be called the Hero of Ferelden, but I would never have done any of the deeds that are accredited to my name without Alistair at my side. I was honored to call him a friend and I will always miss him. Do not forget that while he did the impossible, he was just a man. A man whose loss will make this world a darker place.”  
  
Cassandra reached out and placed her hand on his. They were almost the same hue now, both white and cold. There were no tears in her grey eyes as she stared down at the body, her expression unreadable. She leaned forward, her hair cascading over her shoulder to blanket the golden armor, and kissed King Alistair, the last of the line of Calenhad, on the cheek. There was the perfect imprint of her blood red lips on his skin. She did not move to wipe it off.  
  
Some say that they witnessed a smile appear on the King’s face, as if he had heard her words. Others say that color returned to his cheeks, as if he would get up and start talking again. Others say that she whispered an enchantment over the body so that if Ferelden was ever in great need again he would arise and defend it. It was no secret that Cassandra had raised the dead before, why wouldn’t she have the power to lay that sort of enchantment on a King?  
  
No one took notice of Cassandra exiting the stage, her hands shaking at her sides, as they cheered after her. No one saw a blonde elf appear out of the shadows and put his arm around her waist. No one saw her lean into him and the first tear escape from her eyes. No one saw them disappear into the house that was being used to store items for the proceedings. No one saw Cassandra sink into a chair, her legs no longer able to carry her in her grief. No one saw Cassandra cry, only the second time in many, many years, tears causing black streaks down her porcelain white face. No one saw the elf murmuring to her, holding her, telling her everything she needed to hear as she cried.  
  
What people remembered about the funeral of Alistair Theirin was the image of the Hero of Ferelden standing over him in all black looking like an angel of death. They remembered the Hero of Ferelden, calm and cold as ever, speak about the man she had traveled with. The remembered that her voice didn’t waver once as she spoke about honor and sacrifice and loyalty. They remembered how she commanded their attention more than the Queen had, she demanded that they listen to her. And they had, they had lapped up every word, but they had not remembered a single one.  
  
And so both Cassandra Amell and Alistair Theirin passed into legend, not as people but as ideas. Songs were sung of them, tales told, but the people in those stories never existed. They were never about the girl from the Circle who no one liked and the boy from the Chantry who had no place in the world. They were about a King and a Hero who did no wrong and suffered no evil. They were noble and just and righteous.  
  
They were all wrong.


End file.
